


Guests, Like Fish

by BlushingNewb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Awkward Conversations, Fluff, M/M, References to Homophobia, Romance, Victorian Attitudes, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson play host to some very unusual visitors...</p><p>Unabashed frivolity and fluffiness abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guests, Like Fish

**Author's Note:**

> This is so totally ridiculous but I love it. Thanks for reading my shenanigans here - I love any and all reader response.

Between the four of them, they managed to convince Mrs. Hudson that John and Sherlock were distant relatives visiting from America. 

Sherlock enjoyed affecting an American accent entirely too much; John’s nasally twang completely failed to sound Tennessean. Not that either of their efforts would have been necessary to persuade Mrs. Hudson, given her current knowledge base. 

When she left, the four men, for lack of a better word…giggled at each other. It was easy to release the mirth - John still didn’t think he would ever recover from the sight of _his_ Sherlock in a cravat. John had already, however, suffered from a surfeit of abuse over his donning of the florid silk waistcoat, so it balanced out. 

Balance…funny concept, that. 

At this point, the pair of them had worked out the details of the crossover. When they first crashed down in front of the fireplace, stark naked in a cloud of smoke, Sherlock’s face had already assumed its trademark “eureka” expression. John actually wasn’t that far behind him, this time. They had stood in front of their mantle too many times before, and the main difference this time was really quite obvious. The artifact – a small, crescent-shaped pendant of Anglo-Saxon make composed of gold enamel – had disappeared, along with their clothes. Sherlock had received the token as a gift of gratitude for recovering the Earl of Chichester’s emerald necklace of Spanish make. He had been holding the medallion, about to place it on the shelf, when he put his arm around John. The floor underneath them had shifted, given way, and a swift wind had blown down upon them. In a matter of moments, they had been transferred into this other place. It could be called a parallel universe, but John preferred to think of it as a similar universe. The term parallel seemed to imply something that ran equally but apart – this universe’s time stretched out and twisted in a different pattern. 

John wasn’t exactly pleased that they seemed to be at someplace very akin to Victorian England. In the short time since their arrival there already promised to be far too much stilted dialogue, stale humour, fusty wool clothing and old chappery. 

There had been the initial shock of the meeting, of course, but Sherlock and his…double? recovered more quickly than John and his…other? 

John eventually settled on addressing _them_ as Holmes and Watson, since that’s what they called one another. He was comfortable enough with those designations, but _they_ had a more difficult time speaking to John and Sherlock on such familiar terms. Sensing the awkwardness rather early on when he caught Watson stuttering over his Christian name (this was definitely not Sherlock’s area), John had suggested that they call him Sauer and address Sherlock as Belstaff. Compromise was the order of the day, after all, and this was not their time. 

Within minutes of their arrival, Holmes had hurtled dressing gowns in their general direction. Granted, he had his eyes covered with his hand the whole time, but he was very familiar with the dimensions of his own sitting room and the force necessary to throw a projectile a certain distance from him. Once they were temporarily covered to the standards of a far more modest era than their own, Holmes ushered John and Sherlock into separate bedrooms for more appropriate garb. John had been a bit flummoxed by all of the pieces – why in God’s name were there so many buttons on the drawers? how could pants have been invented so late? – but he refused to summon his bewildered counterpart for assistance. He had invaded Afghanistan, after all, he was more than capable of tucking the ridiculously boxy shirt into the scratchy trousers. 

It was only a short time after Mrs. Hudson’s departure that Holmes offered Sherlock a pipe laden with, John assumed, the worst of the period’s carcinogenic substances. The flat reeked of it but Sherlock gave every impression of enjoying it immensely. 

When Holmes and…Belstaff lit up together, a somewhat bashful and mustached Watson met John’s eye with an all-too familiar _look_. John nodded back at Watson in understanding. Smoking was hardly the worst of all possible vices. 

Sherlock interrupted their reverie, commenting to Holmes, 

“We’ll obviously need to perform that little task for the Earl of Chichester.” 

“Dear Belstaff,” Holmes said, puffing on his pipe, “don’t tell me too much. It’s been ever so dull lately. Watson recently shared with me that the Earl would arrive in London tomorrow, along with other useless information. He does so enjoy the triviality of his newspaper.” 

John rolled his eyes and saw Watson smile back at his expression. Placidly, Watson replied, 

“Triviality aside, it’s how we find and solve some of our best cases, Holmes. Remember the notices we put out for those busts of Wellington?” 

Sherlock and John exchanged glances – this was indeed a similar, rather than parallel, universe. Sherlock hoped that the pendant would have the ability to return them to their universe. Otherwise, he and John would have to resign themselves to an existence without mobile phones and the Internet. His mind rebelled against what felt like an amputation and he stood up in a snit, pacing furiously. 

“Holmes, show me your London. I can hardly sit here idling and smoking when there’s a new city to map out.” 

They both ran for the door and collided into one another. The Holmes’ tried to force themselves through the exit as one, attempting the physical impossibility of occupying the same space. Finally, Holmes shoved Sherlock in front of him and they dashed eagerly down the stairs, stomping like a herd of cattle. Watson and John locked eyes, suppressing identical grins. John let a titter escape from him and the dam burst. The Watsons guffawed loudly until tears ran down both their cheeks. 

* * *

“Does your Holmes still use cocaine?” 

John had settled on an adapted slow march as they walked down Baker Street. It was early evening and Watson leisurely ambled along with a walking stick in his hand. Fashionable though it undoubtedly was, John constantly suppressed the urge to break it in half. It too closely resembled a cane for his liking. Watson gently wiped a hand over his brow, frowning 

“No, but he got worse when I married. After she…well, when I was widowed and returned to 221B it was on the condition that he give it up.” 

John looked over at Watson. He had a thin gold band on the ring finger of the wrong hand. There was yet another difference; John and his Mary had chosen woven platinum. John had left off wearing it a year and a half after he moved back in with Sherlock. It didn’t seem right to continue doing so, all things considered. 

“Holmes balked, but I stood firm. He was violent for a bit, then sulky, and finally himself again. There are still times that he’s sullen, especially when it’s been a long time since cases.” 

John patted Watson’s shoulder in sympathy. Sullen was such an excellent word for describing Sherlock. Watson looked back at him in query and John explained. 

“I never knew mine when he used. He’s been clean since I’ve known him, but there are nights that I think the mood still takes him. I try to distract him by playing Cluedo, watching…nevermind, it would take too long to explain. Or reading him cold cases…” 

Watson raised his eyebrows and shook his head quizzically. 

“Cold cases?” 

“Yeah, you know, records of unsolved crimes. Sometimes they’re several years old, maybe decades.” 

His double’s face lit up. 

“That sounds absolutely fantastic. Does it work?” 

“Sometimes. Other times he just gets fed up and shoots the wall.” 

Watson sighed knowingly. 

“Yes, he did that after we played Faro. He nailed the cards up first. Mrs. Hudson didn’t make us any biscuits for weeks.” 

* * *

That night, there was further awkwardness. Beforehand, though, Sherlock relayed parts of they day’s events to both John and Watson. 

“And, John,” both Holmes and Watson winced at the use of the first name, “he looked so delightfully stupid in his top hat. It was like Christmas, John, it was like seeing an orange squeezed into a pipe from upside down. This one wasn’t fat, either, but he wouldn’t let us have any of the trifle from the cart.” 

Sherlock had already shared how Mycroft knew at once who he was and had made a rough but close guess at the cause of his appearance. 

Watson looked at his pocket watch and coughed meaningfully. It was half-past ten, which must have been graveyard hours for Victorians, or pseudo-Victorians or whatever. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Holmes, “as we are not exactly but almost like relatives it would be most proper for Belstaff here and I to share quarters.” 

Sherlock sneered. 

“Oh, please, don’t bother to pretend, _Holmes_. You and Watson always ‘share quarters.’ No reason to alter conditions at all, it’s not like John and I do any differently.” 

Watson inhaled his brandy and John was forced to slap him on the back. Holmes’ whole face turned purple up to his cropped, dark hair. Sherlock held up his hands, confused. 

“Bit not good?” 

When Watson recovered sufficiently to breathe again, John pulled Sherlock over by his elbow.

“A word in private, _Belstaff_ , if you would! Holmes, Watson, we’ll return momentarily.” 

He and Sherlock ducked into the formal parlour. It was an ideal location to upbraid Sherlock. 

“You need to apologize!” 

“What, why? For telling the truth? Watson left his suspenders in Holmes’ room – they’re far too short for me. It’s obvious they’re in a relationship, like us.” 

“Obvious though it may be, this is not our time, you idiot! They’re deeply in the closet, by necessity I’m sure. If this Victorian era is anything like our own they could be put in prison, even killed. Aside from that, they’re so shy and you embarrassed them. Our doubles are accustomed to much better manners.” 

Sherlock sniffed disparagingly at him. 

“Manners are overrated.” 

John glared back at his lover. 

“Fine, I’ll apologize. But I’m sharing a bed with you, not Holmes.” 

“What does it matter? You barely sleep anyways.” 

“It matters because you’re there.” 

John leaned against him and Sherlock smoothed a hand over his hair. Mollified, John whispered,

“I don’t really like it here, but it would be unbearable without you.” 

“Yes.” 

* * *

They eventually made it home after all. There was a chase with both punching and shooting. John got the chance to fire Watson’s Beaumont-Adams and he found the experience enormously satisfying. Holmes kept ahold of the reward medallion until they reached 221B again. They shook hands and fondly bid one another farewell. 

John and Sherlock took up position in front of the fireplace and put their arms around each other’s shoulders. Holmes put the artifact on the floor and slid it to them. Sherlock bent down to pick it up and they vanished out of sight. To their relief but not Mrs. Hudson’s they appeared in their own universe, naked and pendantless once more. 

* * *

Watson shyly placed his hand on Holmes’ shoulder. Holmes smiled up at him. 

“I liked them, but I’m glad we’re back to our usual domestic arrangement, Watson.” 

“Well, Holmes, you know what that American said. ‘Guests, like fish…’” 

Holmes raised an eyebrow, amused. 

“Oh, Watson, obviously.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
